


Scherzo in C Minor

by LuluNobody



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Sherlock is a sad panda, moping, violin playing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:20:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuluNobody/pseuds/LuluNobody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a bit of a black mood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scherzo in C Minor

**Author's Note:**

> Not really beta'd, so to speak. First thing I've actually written in a while, so I can't guarantee it's quality. Hope it's good, though! Enjoy~

The silence is stifiling, oppressive; it is heavy like a thick sheet of cotton, suffocating his mind. Sherlock hates the boredom most of all, the way it pulls him unwillingly down in to its grasp, crushing every inch of his brain until it's nothing but mush and liquid. The cocaine helped in the past, but only sometimes acting as enough of a glue to keep the pieces of his mind from falling apart against the constant thrum of boring. It's loathsome, hateful, dull, dreadful, and it will kill him, faster than the worst cocaine withdrawl he has ever experienced. Sherlock will take the most horrible withdrawl over the boredom any day, and that in itself is just wretched at best.  
  
He sniffs in disgust at the thought.  
  
John's meddling about the flat helps, but only sometimes. When he's alone and shut in on himself on the couch or in his bed, the thumping of John's boots on the hardwood breaks up the monotonous chaos of Sherlock's little world, even more so when the good doctor asks about tea. Sherlock usually waves a dramatic hand, yet somehow John knows precisely what he means: none for me, thanks. Even still, Sherlock's heart - or what tiny bits of a heart he has maintained - sinks a little when John leaves, the harsh quiet roaring and deafening in ears. He tries to remember the firms steps of the doctor, where he went in the flat, what he did. He can read John's moods in the manner of his footfalls based on the firmness, the frequency, the shuffle here or there or a slight misstep. In the moments during John's absence, he recalls this information and deduces what he did, where he has gone, what he intends to do, anything to quell the annoying thunder of white noise in his head.  
  
Firm but tentative steps, a slight shuffle: John is weary, and Sherlock can tell that he is concerned. It is the third day Sherlock spends on the couch, three days since he's bothered to utter a word, pick up a mobile or check his e-mail. He knows John is worried about him getting a case any time soon, if only to break up the dangerous tedium, and not whether he will do something drastic to cure this fearful malady. Regardless, as the doctor comes and goes, he asks Sherlock how he is, has he got a case yet, still asks about the tea, and only offers food once. Sherlock never says a word, but John still asks.  
  
John wants to force food down Sherlock's throat; he is a doctor, and his worry gets the better of him most days, this much is certain. However, Sherlock has learned that John has become shockingly more patient with him after the incident with Moriarty - for the obvious reasons, of course, but it is a pleasant change of pace. In turn, Sherlock has become more understanding of John, but in the boredom he is beyond irritable and spiteful, slicing away with his words when John so much as utters a single sentence. Wonderful, patient John - he just sighs and goes out, coming back in the morning smelling like vanilla spice and the laundry deteregent of Sarah's sheets.  
  
It's six days in to the dry spell when Sherlock finally feels the stirrings of motivation to get off the couch and do something. He begins random, trivial little experiments before deciding that John would not be happy were he required to purchase a new carton of milk. Sherlock frowns. No, that experiment is best left untouched - for now.  
  
Instead, it strikes him to pick up his violin. The detective strums a few notes before he begins to play, really play, for the first time in ages. His feet carry him to the middle of the sitting room where he begins; he is barefoot, robe mussed up, and face full of unruly dark curls in desperate need of a cutting. He leans forward, places the rosined bow on the strings, and slides it along with practiced ease. The music is soft at first, a succession of low, lengthy notes that sing out in the air of the flat. He shifts then, left foot taking him toward the coffee table, right following, footfalls punctuated by the shift of notes from one to another. He bends back slightly, eyes scrunched in bliss as he begins to trill along the strings rapidly, throwing himself further back with great abandon.  
  
The thrumming of the instrument through his bones and veins tears trough the thick binds of his boredom, and he forgets - if only briefly - that the world around him exists. The boredom, the throbbing heart that is London, the flat, John even - all that matters is the music. It is a stream of consciousness from his mind and his heart, his emotions and his feelings that he often surpresses. He channels them through his arms to his fingertips and straight to the strings, like a reverse intravenous. Raw, unfiltered and naked, it pours out of him as life from severed arteries.  
  
Time passes as he plays and he does not bother to keep track, no point. He loses himself in the music in a way he hasn't since the cocaine, and it is glorious.  
  
When there is nothing left for the flood gates to spill, Sherlock closes its doors silently, all the walls carefully back in place. He sets the violin and its bow gently down on his armchair before he turns toward the kitchen. He stops one step in, and blinks.  
  
John is home and he is cooking.  
  
As the aroma of cooking pasta and sauteed vegetables wafts through the air, Sherlock wonders how he didn't notice. He does not complain, not at all, but is only caught a bit off-guard. John turns to him at the sudden lack of music, and smiles.  
  
"Ah, great timing, Sherlock. If you're hungry I'm just about done here," he offers, quickly stirring the pasta.  
  
Sherlock breathes, deep and slow, watching. His eyes flit between the recently cleaned table and John, assessing.  
  
A tentative smile curls across his lips, eyes alight.  
  
"Starving."


End file.
